


#bendoverwatchweek

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alley Sex, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bodily Fluids, Body Horror, Bondage, Clothed Sex, Consensual Somnophilia, Creampie, Cultist Tekhartha Zenyatta, Deadlock Gang, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Drunk Sex, Edgeplay, F/F, Frottage, Group Sex, Hate Sex, Lapdance, M/M, NSFW Art, Public Sex, Robot Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sentai Genji Shimada, Sex Pollen, Shibari, Size Difference, Sloppy Seconds, Somnophilia, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Threesome - M/M/M, Topping from the Bottom, Trans Male Character, concept zenyatta, hanzo shimada cries during sex, just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: A few prompts for the bendoverwatch week on pillowfort! Kinks/pairings at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. BobCree, public sex, sloppy seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** McCree/B.O.B.  
>  **Warnings:** group sex, sloppy seconds, creampie, size difference  
>  **Size difference** | ~~Stockings~~ | ~~Handjobs~~ | **Public Sex** | ~~Frottage~~

 

It’s always been one of the stranger Deadlock past times, but once McCree gets a taste for it, he can’t much turn it down. Especially not when a favorite of his is front and center. Morale’s high after a big heist, and straws get drawn and belts come unbuckled.

McCree’s reclined in his favorite chair, a beer in hand and pants unbuttoned. He palms himself in lazy, easy gropes, not keen on workin’ himself up too quickly when he still has time to kill.

B.O.B.’s on his back on the largest table they got, offered up for the gang in that quiet way of his, old habits from his time of seen but not heard. Not that McCree minds; when B.O.B. does make a sound, a startled grunt, a breathless burst of static, it feels like a prize. One of the triplets drags his cock along the ridges of B.O.B.’s mustache while Bars works between his thighs. It’s always interestin’ to see which the sniper picked. His tastes changed on a dime, but his pushiness didn’t. He rudely pumps into the larger omnic, maybe hoping for a sound or two to stroke his ego as much as B.O.B.’s insides stroke his cock.

Omnics are interesting, ‘specially the upgrades they choose to get. Hidden beneath B.O.B.’s chaps and metal panel is a small, innocuous spot, but press it a little, give his cock a stroke or two, and it slicks up nice and pretty. The same spot Bars’s currently giving all he’s got to, rutting hard enough to jostle, wet, eager sounds meshing with his hissing, broken synth. Must be pent up since he curls over B.O.B.’s huge stomach moments later, shuddering and groaning. He finishes with a few hard shoves for good measure, mean, gangly thing, before slapping B.O.B.’s thigh and pulling out.

McCree chugs the rest of his beer before standing, eyes never leaving that messy, twitching hole he can only see by how shiny and ruined it is. By the time he’s tugged his dick out, the one triplet’s gone too. Good thing, McCree doesn’t much like lookin’ at him, but the string of cum he left along B.O.B.’s faceplate has an certain allure.

“B.O.B., ya ready?” he drawls, hefting his cock by its base, tapping it against that messy spot he’s aiming to sink into within the minute.

B.O.B.’s lights flicker, eyes focusing and unfocusing. McCree draws a finger down the omnic’s cock, segmented and throbbing beneath his touch.

“They’ve been mean to ya. But I won’t let ya go unsatisfied.”

He grasps B.O.B.’s cock, a thick sonavabitch that he can’t get his whole fist around, rolls his thumb beneath its fat tip, smearing the lime green slick that matches his lights. The omnic shudders, cock twitching in his warm, calloused grip.

“Ooh, needy thing. Don’t worry.”

McCree angles his own cock down and presses inside, cum and slick dribbling out as he goes, the squelch of it burning his ears and guts, and all McCree can do is grin like a maniac and keep going. It’s a rush when a massive thing like B.O.B. submits so prettily, the thighs framing McCree larger ‘n life and quaking with the slow, even push.

He takes his time, and why not? It’s his turn, he wants to enjoy this, and more than that he wants B.O.B. to enjoy it, the clicked tongues and huffed sighs from the onlookers tickling the back of McCree’s neck and warming his stomach. Deep, rhythmic, slow, the sweet call of orgasm a speck on the horizon that he ambles towards, watching the flickering of B.O.B.’s lights, how still and cute and quiet he goes, a nearly inaudible squeak as McCree swivels his thumb beneath the omnic’s glans just once, never stopping the smooth roll of his hips. B.O.B. trembles, such a sight; McCree bites his lower lip, moans through the flutter of B.O.B’s body around him as the omnic overloads in a gush across his segmented, round stomach.

“There we go…” McCree groans, hips stumbling. “Hope you don’t mind if I—”

B.O.B.’s calves cross behind McCree’s back, urging him closer, deeper, the rippling clench of him stealing his breath. McCree’s single laugh dips into a moan as his hands find B.O.B.’s waist, as he rolls his hips just a bit harder, eyes dark beneath a sweaty, drawn brow.


	2. Moicy, shibari, sex pollen, hate sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Overwatch  
>  **Pairing:** Moira/Mercy  
>  **Warnings:** shibari, drug use, mild hate sex  
>  ~~Orgasm Denial~~ | **Sex Pollen** |  **Shibari** | **Hate Sex** | ~~Body Worship~~

 

“Shame that the sample wasn’t as potent as expected.”

Angela rolls her eyes. Like clockwork, Moira begins to pontificate. She’s not sure why she lets herself get talked into these scenarios, maybe because she hasn’t slept in twenty-eight hours and needs a release outside of caffeine and screaming into her hands. She doesn’t ask what concoction Moira pumped into her, only that it would help her relax, make her more sensitive for these sporadic dalliances between missions and running samples and too many things she can’t think about right now or else she won’t be able to stop.

For once, at least, Moira’s true to her word. They’re sequestered in a back office or another, Angela half-naked and tied with the soft cords that Moira keeps in a drawer in her desk. Angela doesn’t ask why she keeps it, or if she uses on others. She doesn’t care to know. All that matters is...all that matters is Moira isn’t talking anymore, her mismatched eyes drawing thin, interested.

Angela is much too warm.

“I hope this doesn’t kill me,” she says, airer than she means.

“Yes, it would be a nuisance to dispose of a body at this hour.”

Annoyance bubbles and disperses in record time, a haze settling over her, heat building like cinnamon at the back of her throat. Moira’s eyes seem so bright, her carved features starker, especially as they loom close, lips brushing over hers as she speaks.

“How are you feeling, Angela?”

“Strange. Hot.”

Like she’s blooming in waves. She strains in her seat, but the cords hold, a dull, delicious throb settling between her thighs.

“You may be onto something here…”

“Oh?” Moira murmurs, long fingers tracing down Angela’s throat, across her collarbone. “Describe it to me.”

“Fuck you.” Angela breathes. “Just touch me.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

But Moira does touch her, traces the rounded swell of a nipple already pebbled. Angela squeezes her thighs together.

“I won’t beg.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Moira smiles against her throat, teeth tugging skin, nose brushing beneath her ear, breath hot and tingling. Teasing, always teasing, ridiculous, insufferable—Angela cranes into the touch, annoyed but not enough to stop doing it.

She’s closed her eyes. She opens them, Moira’s half-knelt, inches from her chest.

“Stop staring.”

“Why else would I go through the trouble of tying you if not to enjoy the effect?”

Retorts die as Moira leans in, hands on Angela’s thighs, tongue lashing across a nipple, chilled for a moment by the air before Moira sucks it, hard, uneven pulls that jolt through Angela’s body, winding her tight and trapped as the cords holding her. She knows just how to do it too, Moira knows too much about her, knows how Angela’s mind settles on her hands dragging steadily inward, beneath her skirt. She’s wet, swollen feeling, moreso than usual, another point of contention, how much she enjoys Moira’s company if only in these moments. Too irregular, too arrogant, otherwise. Dangerous.

A harsh suck pulls her back, teeth and tongue, the other nipple bitten soon after the first. Angela groans, tries to make it angry rather than breathless, but Moira doesn’t seem to care either way, darkening Angela’s chest with marks, her hand finding the hot line of her cunt already dampening her underwear.

“My, my.” Moira says, gleeful, like a success.

Angela tells herself it’s worth it; in a few seconds Moira won’t be able to say anything else smart and stupid and infuriating when she puts her mouth to better use, sucks and licks until her lips swell and her cheeks take on a patchy glow and her mouth is a ruin all because of her.

“Hurry up,” Angela snaps.

And Moira, dropping properly to her knees, simply grins.


	3. B.O.B./Bars (Sniper omnic), creampie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Overwatch  
>  **Pairing:** B.O.B./Bars  
>  **Warnings:** alley sex, creampie, dirtytalk  
>  **Notes:** Kink voted by my twitter followers!  
>  ~~A/B/O~~ | ~~Somno/Sleepy Sex~~ | **Creampie** | ~~Spanking~~ | ~~Striptease~~

It’s not the time or the place, but Bars is bored, and it seems he’s not the only one. B.O.B.’s been giving him eyes for a while now, the only thing of interest since they secured the drop point at 2300. B.O.B.’d never approach on his own, a trait hardwired from years of strict servitude, but he sure does look, always angled towards him, distance kept so properly Bars knows B.O.B.’s watching his every move. Catching him at it gets B.O.B. sloppy and leaky too, knowing Bars knows, the line of oil shining on his faceplate louder than words.

It’s cute, as close to a blush as any of them get, and that’s all the encouragement he needs to push the larger omnic into the darkened alleyway. They only got a few minutes before the Miss gets wise, so he doesn’t waste a moment. He palms B.O.B. through his pants, optics adjusting as he finds the rigid jut of his cock waiting for him.

“Damn. How long you been like this?”

B.O.B. only hunches forward, watching Bars grope and feel along every inch he can grasp, pant seams bulging. Bars’d love to tease him, get him steaming and clicking, earn some soft, needy whines so broken he shivers at the thought, fans racing to cool himself. Not this time, not while B.O.B. keeps glancing at the main road, and that’s fine. A nice, quick fuck would have to do.

He unbuckles B.O.B.’s belt with methodic ease, his cock hitting the swell of his stomach with an audible slap, slick dripping down the length of it. Bars smears it over the crown and the first few inches before turning and tugging his own pants to his thighs, bending over, backing up against the larger until they’re flush and B.O.B.’s cock slides over the small of his back. Bars almost wants to complain how gentlemanly B.O.B.’s being, hands bracing the old brick behind him instead of drawing Bars onto his cock, but there’s fun in this too, easing his hands between his thighs, grasping B.O.B.’s cock and pressing it to his opening, onlined but not nearly as much as the other.

It might hurt, and Bars groans, insides onlining just that much more. He bears down, and there’s resistance, deliciously so, feels B.O.B.’s shudder against his legs, and Bars bends over further, tries to cram that fat tip inside, the moments of too-full-too-much-too-soon burning through his circuits.

“Doesn’t this make you crazy?” His synth crackles, roughened when there’s finally some give; the first, sinking slide has him rolling on the balls of his feet. “If you want to fuck me up, I’ll let you.”

He braces his hands on his thighs, glances over his shoulder, sheathed completely with a hard chirp of his own. B.O.B.’s optics shine in the darkness, narrowed pinpoints of light, hands balled into fists at his sides.

Not what he expected.

“I—”

Bars begins to pull away, body protesting, catching, bugging as his sensors ping greedily for more.

Hard, heavy weight grips him from front to back, B.O.B.’s hands encircling his hips, he’d never, this is—

“Oh, fuck, yeah—”

Sharp snaps of his hips, deep and unyielding, not like how Bars would’ve done it with long, even thrusts, nearly draw off his cock before sinking back, letting his body feel empty and claimed again and again. It shorts him out, slick releasing in a hot gush that B.O.B. uses to his every advantage, more, faster. He’s been fucked harder, meaner, let his partners do anything he wanted before, but somehow he can’t keep quiet, grasps his throat to muffle his synth, buckles and snaps jostling and making enough ruckus to let anyone in throwing distance know what’s going on.

Bars tries to angle back, meet each thrust and then some, but he has no purchase, lifted, the fucker’s holding him off the ground, as useless as a toy in his hands, the angle changing, as deep as it can go and there’s a bite to it, hard and shocking and his fingers dig into the seams of B.O.B.’s wrists.

“Let me.”

Low, so low, he’s barely spoken more than ten times in Bars’s life. He tries to look behind him incredulously, but the thrusts turn brutal, and things get fuzzy and he’s making sounds, sugar-coated praise that would fry Bars’s circuits if he gave them an ounce of thought. He’d get B.O.B. back, slide onto his cock so slow and thoroughly he’d have him howling with it, remind him who’s in charge, but now he holds on and nearly busts his circuits growling and twisting and taking it, the pace too much for either of them, keyed up and hearing the scuffling of their comrades only a few yards away.

“Fill me, fuck me up, c’mon—”

And like sweet, stupid clockwork the larger, near silent omnic groans and yanks Bars down and holds, throbbing and convulsing, a hot heaviness settling, an immediate, incredible burst of sensation, no room for the slick to go besides dribbling out in gel-like rivulets while B.O.B. thrusts in short, aborted jerks, shaking and trembling, so much closer to the B.O.B. that Bars knows. Almost like B.O.B. comes back to himself, after that, slipping out and holding Bars while the smaller hisses and snakes a hand between his thighs, feels how hot and stretched and leaking he is while he fists his own neglected cock.

“Like that?” Bars grunts, touching himself shallowly, swollen and near breaking, “using me like a thing?” And it’s too much, far too much, when B.O.B.’s fingers brush over his own and push inside, slick splattering to the pavement as Bars jerks into his fist, only kept upright by the steady hand at his waist.

“God, what are you doing back there?”

B.O.B. winces, but Bars only laughs, fucked out and satisfied, as he slowly puts himself back together.


	4. McGenyatta, blowjobs, sloppy seconds, drunk sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** McCree/Zenyatta/Genji (Lunar New Year skins)  
>  **Warnings:** drunk sex, oral sex, fluids  
>  **Notes:** [Zen looks like this without his hat!](https://beetleknee.tumblr.com/post/182455278747/hair-bun-zen)  
>  **Blowjobs** | ~~Exhibitionism/Voyeurism~~ | ~~Massage~~ | **Overstimulation** | ~~Knotting~~

The general and the warrior retire to the magistrate’s estate. McCree offers them his finest stash of baijiu, and whether it is Genji laughing with his face uncovered or the way McCree hangs onto every word, Zenyatta matches their drinking cup for cup. They watch the night sky through the open door as they talk, stars blurring into a wash of pearls and blackened blues. The quarter moon rises and sets as the men slip from around the table to astride one another, half-knelt, half-sprawled across the cushioned floor.

“Never seen an omnic with hair like that.”

Zenyatta cants his face towards McCree with a quiet hum as the magistrate traces where his hair meets white chrome.

“One must look the part.”

The backs of McCree’s fingers slip down to grasp one of the locks that frame the omnic’s face, lifting and testing, carding through its ends.

“Jus’ like the real thing. That too, I reckon.” McCree says, staring at Zenyatta’s mouth as he sips.

“Oh, it can do anything a human’s can,” Genji murmurs from where he’s tucked against Zenyatta’s side, breath fogging his neck pistons.

“That so…”

His fans pick up one point five seconds too late.

“Wanna see?”

The soft warmth of Genji’s lips find the seam across Zenyatta’s cheek.

“Genji.”

A breath, a gentle, discordant hesitance that makes Zenyatta’s words low and shaken. Pressure at his chin, ignored if Zenyatta chose. Instead, he shifts the last inch to greet Genji’s mouth with his own.

Shameful perhaps, but he swallows Genji’s sigh and angles deeper, synthetic tongue slipping inside his mouth, hunger like a spark when McCree makes a sound between a huff and a gasp.

They fall into each other, a messy slide of bodies and whispered permissions and fumbling fingers, liquid dripping between mouths and kisses and moans. The shock of the magistrate’s hand in his hair while the eyes of his lover are hot upon him urges Zenyatta down. Unsteadily he undoes the McCree’s wrappings, traces his cock with his fingers and then the smooth edges of his mouth, the smell and size different than Genji, dizzying.

Fingers tighten against his scalp as he dips forward to taste, Zenyatta’s hands planting on each thigh. Genji’s punched out groan, more shifting. Quiet encouragement and he hefts McCree’s cock upright and draws it inside his mouth, nearly too big to take. Sensors online, stimulated as much as the man he’s pleasuring, white hot flares to his core, gentle urging that sets the pace, muffled moans as Zenyatta’s used, no need to breathe or think, shaking each time his mouth’s forced flush to the magistrate’s body, deepest sensors pressed for the first time.

The wet drag of something else, Genji’s cock against his faceplate, his lover stroking leisurely as he watches, mouth half-parted and eyes alight with something Zenyatta’s never seen before, something that makes him press Genji’s hand away and replace it with his own. It’s sloppy, hazy as his processes bug and his focus splits in several places. Worst of all when the magistrate’s other hand joins the first, grasping his hair, holding him still as he begins to thrust, heavy, urgent snaps of his hips while he groans hard and deep. Zenyatta’s own sounds echo, thoughts ripped away, afraid, almost, as pleasure escalates higher than believed possible.

Could he—he couldn’t, the pace speeding, sensors along his tongue and throat bursting with stimuli that shocks through the rest of him, lower, throbbing behind his panel. Genji had never this roughly, this thoroughly, never locked his face against his body and used him without pause or hesitance. A single, useless tug as Zenyatta tries to fight the overwhelming flood, but McCree holds, sets into him and Zenyatta cannot resist, thrashes as he overloads, throat convulsing, forcing a hot grunt from the man inside him. Through aftershocks McCree thrusts, weakened, ruined moans popping from Zenyatta’s synth, the man’s fingers gripping him so tightly that pain shifts to pleasure, lost again in the rough convulsions as the magistrate cums down his throat.

All bits and pieces. McCree easing him back with utmost care, hair falling into Zenyatta’s eyes as McCree lets him go, bun ruined from rough handling. A new set of fingers replacing the last, smaller, synthetic, gentle but insistent. Chirped whimpers as Genji slides inside his mouth, obscene with his groan, the space already hot and overworked from the magistrate’s use.

“Did he…” McCree mumbles.

“Oh, yes,” says Genji, with a wicked, wild grin. “Master, you never told me you liked it so.”

And Genji starts moving all too quickly, grinding against razed sensors. It is the end for him, the pressure at his panel pained, overful, dripping between the seams. He cannot release it or risk soaking through his robes, a sharp, violent pleasure at the thought of it, messed and helpless between the magistrate and his lover. Should he spread his thighs and robes, release his panel to whimper as it gushes and stains his legs and the floor beneath, shake as hungry eyes steal over him, debased and thrilling in it?

Thoughts Zenyatta can hardly entertain when the familiar taste and smell of his lover overwhelm, the rough insistence newly learned blighting his machinations, reducing him to a bugging, trembling heap that would not faintly resemble the elegant, lordly strategist he was only a few hours prior.

Instead, he submits, trapped on every groan and whimper, his own hands snaking between his thighs caught and pinned to his back by the hawk-eyed magistrate, who only grins and clicks his tongue with lazy, heated satisfaction.

“No, not yet.”


	5. Hanyatta, clothed sex, angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Overwatch  
>  **Pairing:** Hanzo/Zenyatta  
>  **Warnings:** drunk sex, clothed sex, rough sex, angst  
>  **Notes:** Sorry my Hanyatta’s always sad. :pensive:  
>  ~~Threesome~~ | **Clothed Sex** |   ~~Blood/Violence~~ | ~~Dirty Talk~~ | ~~Wrestling~~  
>  **Matching artwork by flyhandz[](https://twitter.com/Flyhandz/status/1101703405657980928)**

Each day it grows, and with it Hanzo’s disdain. He drinks, but it does not help, merely widdles him, wood to dust, until he can stand it no longer. A foggy, needling sharpness follows each step towards his destruction, quickening the rise and fall of his chest. He would never have to hear the disappointment in his brother’s voice, the pity, or worse, understanding, from either of them.

Hanzo knocks but shoulders his way inside as soon as the door begins to open. The other falls into view, lights glowing in near darkness, and something dangerous swells past grim, drunken resignation.

“Hanzo—”

Not oyabun, not Shimada-san. His given name, low, with gentle surprise.

Cool metal warms in his grasp, and he’s blinded momentarily by the omnic’s array brightening in his periphery. Only a whisper shorter, but so much slighter, disturbingly delicate as Hanzo’s arms seal around his back, hands groping down the red wires of his spine, the barely hidden heat rising to the forefront like the pressure before a storm, like the call of his dragons, unyielding and aching for release.

Hanzo draws them flush, bites the soft, inner black of the omnic’s throat, fists the wires at the base of his spine, earns a small chirp, a strange, alien sound that only tightens Hanzo’s grip, his other hand palming just beneath, finding only saffron fabric and the warm, hard curves it conceals.

Seconds rush past, unbelievable in their existence, Hanzo flushed and sweating, explosive like a lightning strike. He never imagined that large, graceful hands would settle on his shoulders, not pushing away but holding on, that the omnic would jolt when he nudged meanly between his thighs, that his stifled, synthetic gasps would ring in his ears.

Hanzo shoves him, and the omnic stumbles, knocking into the nearest surface, a desk, a table, he does not care, grabs the frayed top of the omnic’s pants and tugs them down. Too dark to see more than the dull shine of his thighs, plating smooth and alluring, unexpected. Hanzo doesn’t give him the chance to turn around, pushes the omnic flat to the surface, nudging his legs apart, a hand in his spinal wires tugging them, a pained hiss, familiar.

“Why won’t you fight me?” Hanzo growls, voice cracking, undoing his robes one-handed, cursing under his breath. His cock slips out, bright red and hot, into his shaking grip.

“I will not.”

He grabs the omnic’s thigh, lifts and pins it to the table, spreading him, finding more than smooth chrome, a black stripe between metal, satin-soft and wet against calloused fingers, not quite analogous to a human but close enough to slot his cock against. The omnic’s spine arches, sinuous and pretty, his head dipping between his shoulder blades. Hanzo ruts brutally, enraptured, cock slicking up as it slides along the omnic’s opening, urged by the sounds he never knew an omnic could make, struck by how he angles back, each thrust addictive, just short of what Hanzo needs.

“Tell me to stop.” His eyes feel tight, wild now that each push throbs with the rush of his blood, the frenzied feeling of doing the unthinkable, of being allowed it. “Zenyatta—”

Zenyatta tries to look at him, but Hanzo grabs his neck, pushes his head down.

“Why do you deny yourself?” Zenyatta asks quietly.

“You call this denial?”

Hanzo grasps his cock, angles it properly, kissing it to the wet, warm divot that twitches at the touch. Bitter and tight and loathing it, he sinks into him; Zenyatta jerks but doesn’t fight, moans as his insides squeeze and flex as Hanzo sheaths himself on the first shove.

“I’m doing exactly what I want,” Hanzo bites.

A means to an end, that’s all it is, that’s all it ever could be and Hanzo reminds himself over and over. Zenyatta groans at each push, quiet but undeniable and clutching around him, warm and too real and more than he ever wished for, could’ve even dream of, this automaton who helped his brother overcome the worst of his life and tried to do the same for him.

Greedy, needing more and more of the one that he could never have nor should want. It ends tonight, it has to, except Zenyatta meets every harsh push, cries out in a perfect dream-like facsimile of his darkest thoughts.

His thrusts slow, drawn deep and long, as soon as the punishing grip on Zenyatta’s wrists eases he grasps Hanzo’s own, pulling him closer.

The dragons broil beneath his skin, sight blurring, sensations warring with drink and want and hatred. Hanzo pulls back almost completely, stumbling, breathing harsh and ugly, a fraction from clarity.

“Is it so difficult to believe I want you?” Zenyatta says, shifting, taking more of Hanzo’s cock, rocking with what little purchase he has, and Hanzo’s throat seizes, grateful for the near darkness as tears burn in his eyes. “Please, Hanzo.”

Hanzo’s breath hitches, and he bends double, presses his head to the cool metal of Zenyatta’s shoulders, rocks his hips, hesitant, aching. He burns and wants and _wants_ of him, and Zenyatta gives and gives, calling his name, settling into the place Hanzo carved for him in secret resignation, knowing it would never be filled.

That it could be this easy, that Zenyatta could want him, that they could be something—he forces it away, clings to the rising insistence of pleasure, the labored, matching gasps as he loses himself, hoping that the moment will never pass.


	6. Genji/Concept!Zenyatta, edging, bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Genji/Concept!Zenyatta  
>  **Warnings:** bondage, edging  
>  **Notes:** Topping from the bottom is so good...  
>  ~~Sensory Deprivation~~ | **Edging** | ~~Praise~~ | ~~Role Reversal~~ | ~~Against/Stuck in a Wall~~
> 
> ~~-~~

Zenyatta is larger than most at the monastery, nearly the height of a bastion model and just as deadly. Battle-trained and many-armed, what words cannot solve he settles with his stature or in  last resort violence.

There is little reason to subdue his student so when asking would be easiest, but there is beauty in it, a certain giddiness as Genji twitches and flexes against the silk restricting his chest and arms.

Maskless, armorless, sinew and scars and alloy glimmering in the candle light, Genji watches Zenyatta with familiar hunger, a look that would’ve been fury-lined and hateful, years ago. Now, he stares with careful control, lighter in attitude but all the heavier for it.

Zenyatta had known cyborgs before Genji, though none like him. Learning, as always, was a process. Touching, calibrating, stopping and starting within the span of a breath, soothing Genji’s hurt so he could rise from it. The eight hands made it easier, stroking over his remaining flesh and new synthetics, calibrating the sensors in Genji’s arms and legs, then his mouth and tongue, first with his fingers, then with more when Genji begged for it. Working pain and tension and loathing away until his body awoke, shy and tentative. It is incredible to think of how tenuous it had been, how sensitive Genji’s become. Barely touched, his cock hangs heavy and eager, nearly touching the mattress where he kneels, bracketed by Zenyatta’s legs.

“Why do I have the feeling this is more than just a lesson,” Genji murmurs, smiling as a pair of Zenyatta’s hands grasp his thighs.

“I could make it so, if you wish.” Zenyatta grabs the base of his own cock, gives it a languid stroke just to catch the flash in his student’s eyes. “Would you prefer instruction from across the room,” he watches Genji’s cock jump and leak as the omnic brushes fingers over the opening beneath his cock, sighing as the gentle ache sets in, onlined and wanting. “While you learn by your own hand?”

“Zen…”

Genji’s hips twitch, his mouth a thinned line, cheeks flushed beneath the shadow of his beard.

“Hm, another day, perhaps.”

Only discipline keeps Zenyatta’s motions smooth and easy, though Genji had his ways of breaking his master down. Learning hadn’t been one way, especially for them.

“Show me with your mouth,” Zenyatta says.

Genji obeys without hesitance or self-consciousness, and Zenyatta suppresses a shiver.

The omnic’s cock matches his body, long and thick, a gentle point of embarrassment for him, but it’s one of the first insecurities Genji eased for him. Hands bound behind his back, his student is a sight, lapping just beneath his glans, cock bobbing gently with each brush of Genji’s mouth. Trying to tease him, but Zenyatta will not let him play games, weaves fingers into his green hair, careful but firm.

He registers Genji’s faint amusement and gives him something else to ponder; the human’s dark eyes flutter shut as Zenyatta pushes Genji’s mouth onto his cock, reeling at the wicked tongue that immediately lashes along its underside. Cheeky, even bound at his mercy. He keeps the pace quick, enough to blotch his student’s face, to swell his lips and darken his eyes. As he uses Genji so too is he weakened, each push into his mouth a boon and a curse that chips away his control.

Zenyatta does not push Genji too harshly, but all at once the man doubles down, swallowing hard and taking more and more, nearly sealed around the base of him, tongue dipping into the shallow divots that segment his cock, delicate and over sensitive. A hand grasps at Genji’s nape, another at his shoulder, Zenyatta’s legs flexing around him, squeezing at Genji’s sides.

When he lets Genji off to breathe, the man gasps raggedly, drags his tongue down his cock to the tumid space beneath.

“Genji—”

He should not allow it, as cocky as Genji’s been, but when his tongue dips inside, swirls against shallow nodes and makes him steam, Zenyatta only shoves his head down harder. His student moans, all tongue and trembling lips, writhing and lapping, gaze flickering up Zenyatta’s body, watching with unhidden heat. Sating himself on his student’s tongue is more than alluring, and Zenyatta nearly lets himself surrender, use Genji’s mouth and leave him needy and bound for his trouble.

“You hardly need a lesson in this.”

And Zenyatta’s hands ease him up as Genji catches his breath, mouth messed and reddened and left filthy as he positions him. A hand on his own cock, a pair on Genji’s hips, one on his thigh. His fans whir just beneath Genji’s breathing, overheated, condensation shining on his old, knicked plating.

“I don’t need one in this, either.” Genji murmurs, eyes rolling back as Zenyatta teases his cock against his opening, blood hot and slippery.

“How sure we become in our abilities.” He fists Genji’s cock, spreading the copious pre, dragging a few fingers along its length until Genji trembles with each lazy pull.

“Do not come until I give the word.”

Zenyatta slips a hand behind the back of each knee, angling so Genji can sink into him without untying his arms. There is a moment or two to find rhythm, but Zenyatta holds still until the full weight of his student settles inside him, flush and hotter than he expected. Genji’s steady bravado falters as he begins to move, ungainly if not for the hands steadying his hips.

Zenyatta never guessed he would love interfacing like this, innately human and messy. Upgrades exhilarating but nerve-wracking, so unbelievably worthwhile, not just for their pleasure but for the opportunity to watch Genji lose himself in his body. He palms his cock, another hand sliding beneath his chestplate, tracing along sensitive nodes just within his reach, sparks jumping between fingers and panels, array focused at all times on Genji, the unsteady, increasingly erratic roll of his hips, slower and slower, his tightened jaw and his drawn brows, the sweat bright on his skin.

“So close already.” His array flickers. “You enjoy being bound.”

Zenyatta’s fingers splay at his throat, teasing between his pistons, a hand paws at his own thigh, another working his cock between thumb and forefinger.

“I can do it more often. Blindfold you.”

Genji’s hips stammer.

“Hold you down.”

He grasps the base of Genji’s cock tight, and his student’s eyes widening almost comically, a growl snapped behind his teeth.

“Fuck—” Genji whimpers, half-buried, gripped tight until his pleasure evens out, leaves him jittery and trapped between rocking forward and pulling away, trying desperately to catch his breath. “It’s not...nn... “

Zenyatta’s hands tighten on his own body as Genji struggles for control, muscles twitching, cock throbbing dangerously inside him, setting off a chain of addicting pops of pleasure that are nearly enough to distract him.

Genji finally begins to move again, and Zenyatta half-sighs, half-moans, fingers tracing over his silk bindings, his taut muscles and scars, shocking along sensors, newfound pleasure for Genji as Zenyatta’s human equivalencies had been for him. Not too much, just enough to keep Genji’s motions off-kilter and unsure, each press a brush too close to orgasm that Zenyatta works away just as quickly, all the while staving off his own for the chance to match Genji’s, to overload right as his student can take the teasing no longer, when Zenyatta gives into his pleas and lets his student collapse on him while his hips jerk and twitch and he pumps Zenyatta full.

Until then, he hitches his legs higher, squeezes tighter, and enjoys Genji breaking down, piece by piece.


	7. Cultist!Zenyatta/Sentai!Genji, tentacle sex, dream sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing** : Cultist!Zenyatta/Sentai!Genji  
>  **Warnings** : bondage, tentacle sex, dream sex, slight somno (consent not mentioned explicitly but is consensual)  
>  **Notes** : We did it lads! Every day of the #bendoverwatchweek! I’ve never been able to do something like this before, so it was definitely a rewarding challenge. Hope you’ve all enjoyed!   
>  ~~Lapdances~~ | ~~Shower Sex~~ | **Tentacles** | ~~Sloppy Seconds~~ | ~~Drunk Sex~~
> 
> This is technically a continuation of [Tricks and Treats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12581720), but I think it probably makes sense enough without reading the first part. 

It’s been the same dream ever since that night. Scripted and alien at once, as obvious as the smear of molded, gray brick in front of him. Genji shifts but doesn’t move, jostling the chains around his forearms that keep him upright. They don’t hurt, they never do, but he laments their presence all the same. His vision shimmers, dark purples and greens swimming in his periphery. The same familiar tightness in his guts, a shiver between his shoulder blades. The silence whispers.

Gen...tai.

“Sentai...Green Sentai.”

No longer brick, but the grays and golds of his master’s face, vibrant and holy in the dark. Safe. Warm.

“Master—”

Genji plays his role. Perhaps he could wake up, if he tried—

The genial slopes of Zenyatta’s face disappear, replaced by two hellfire sparks that soften into a teal glow. Zenyatta’s eyes flicker as the tentacles beneath loop and whorl in slow, mesmerizing patterns.

Genji does not want to try.

_Tentacles slipping inside his helmet, cradling his jaw, pressing with rhythm into his mouth, slipping between his thighs, stroking his cock—_

Warmth pools with feral thrill, knowing, knowing. Yearning for the quiet, low laugh of his master-enemy-lover right on cue.

“How you have fallen, Green Sentai,” his master coos, doing everything for his rapidly heating body, a steady ache forming between his thighs. “Again and again I catch you.”

His helmet is gone, a second of tepid air before they coil around his throat, tendrils suckling at this flesh, quick, tender pecks that grow harder and more demanding.

“Perhaps this time I will not let you go,” the words tremble along his skin, through the appendages possessively coiling around him. Liquid heat that penetrates alloy and bone.

Why are his dreams like this? It was a single night, a single time, but he returns to it again and again, costumed and tentacled and bound and—he whimpers behind grit teeth as Zenyatta slides his thigh between his legs, nudging against him. He shouldn't be able to feel it through armor, but he can and he _throbs_ and he curls into the touch while his master laughs.

"You only had to ask, hero."

The tentacles seize around his throat, and Genji has to remember how to breathe, how to steady himself and not gasp like he’s being undone. Impossible as the Cultist draws his thigh in gentle rocking motions, and the shameful rush of it eclipses, shocking like the stares of his teammates at the party weeks ago.

"Surely the others would like to see you on display." Zenyatta leans into him, breath along his throat, lost in the mass of tentacles, the scrape of something sharp and dangerous in the soft, slick suckling. "My brothers and sisters using you, an enemy as their slave." The chains rattle. "But the thought does make me...possessive. I trained you myself, after all."

A hand replaces thigh, pressing and squeezing, Genji’s panel disappeared, cock hot and throbbing in the smooth chill of the omnic's palm. The barest brush of his claws makes Genji quake, his legs giving out as the chains snap taut.

"Oh, how pretty," Zenyatta's whispers echo in his mind.

In slow motion, how dreams are, the omnic's hand slides down his own body, the hiss of it, the horrifyingly needy ache when the tentacles between Zenyatta’s legs reach for him, knowing him, Genji spreading his thighs like an offering. They writhe and twist, slippery warm and leaking, but linger just out of reach, barely brushing Genji’s dripping cock.

"P-please, master—"

"You learn so quickly, my student." A single tentacle cups him, the drag flighty and with leisure, no better than Zenyatta’s thigh. Tears shine in Genji’s eyes, desire bubbling over, maddening and unstoppable.

"Please, m-master, more. Touch me more."

Teeth at his neck, true lips somewhere beneath, the swipe of tongue; Genji moans hard and low, quieted by the flexing tendrils around his throat, darkening his vision, one slipping over his wettened cheek, tasting his tears.

"How could I refuse such a plea?"

More tentacles join the first, gliding over and beneath, cupping and grabbing and writhing, wiggling between his thighs, curling around his balls, behind, teasing him. The mass grips tight and twitches, a united slick heat that swallows his cock like a living sleeve.

His head lulls against Zenyatta's shoulder, breath heating his face, weak, too weak, used up, Zenyatta urging Genji’s thighs together with his hands, tentacles rutting between the tight, slippery space, touching everything, too much and not enough at once, greedy.

"Good boy. Isn't it nice to give in?"

Zenyatta's mouth doesn't move when he speaks, and Genji shivers and shifts against him. They glide together easily, Zenyatta's rutting punctuated by quiet smacks, Genji feeling liquid and useless, lost in an ever growing need to take all his master will give.

 _Yes_ , Genji wants to say, but only manages to gasp, fists clenched and jerking in the chains, wanting to touch, to hold onto Zenyatta, his body a thing of heat and flesh, desire peaking and peaking without release, a dream’s curse and blessing. The tentacles slide past his balls, gently teasing his ass, slipping and licking while they cradle his cock, and he nearly yells then when one breaches him, a hot, livid spark burrowing deep and forcing him open, writhing and jostling.

Genji does say yes then, begs with whatever he can muster, thinks it as hard as he can, his complete surrender, while Zenyatta finds his pleasure between his legs and pulls Genji apart piece by piece, another peak, tentacles spreading the spend and muting their already slickened ends with it.

"Always so much...Genji."

He wants to hold Zenyatta more than he can stand, so he does, clutching at his master’s shoulders as the chains melt away, the dream cracking. Claws prickling Genji's hips, Zenyatta’s near silent moans as he lowers Genji onto his cock, the tentacles squeezing and seizing around him, wild with their eagerness. The rhythm picks up, bleeds away, speared so deeply it steals breath and thought as the tentacles press marks into his throat.

It unravels, Genji on his back, knees at his ears, the Cultist's eyes boring into his, driving into him  and stealing everything he is. Chest and cheek to the cool stone, Zenyatta using Genji's bound arms to pull him onto his cock until he paints the wall with his pleasure. His master on his knees in the too familiar closet, head tilted back, hidden mouth open, presented tongue, seconds before Genji loses himself, waiting for his prize. The beginning. The ending.

Genji stares up at a wooden ceiling, sweating and overheated. He moans, sleep-heavy and confused, jerks his hips into the clutching sweetness of a smooth palm.

"Oops." His master singsongs quietly, and Genji's voice catches in his throat.

He tosses his forearm over his face and spills over Zenyatta's hand, the omnic humming appreciatively as his lover whines and swears and jerks. When his brain stops being more than dreams and numb desire, he watches Zenyatta clean him up, settling back into his side in their bed.

"What were you dreaming about?" Zenyatta murmurs, pressing his faceplate against Genji's cheek before tucking his head into his shoulder.

His mind speeds stupidly.

"You." Is all Genji manages.


	8. McCree/Concept!Mercy, lap dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202507/chapters/38259818), but you don't need to read to understand this part.  
>  **Pairing:** McCree/Concept!Mercy (named Markus)  
>  **Warnings: **Lap dance, frottage, trans character (no PIV, masculine connotative language)****

“Well ain’t you jus’ full of surprises.”

Markus doesn't quite meet his gaze, but he does smile just a little.

McCree never thought he’d get the chance after seeing Markus with Zen, eager as a puppy and more than lovesick. Though the monk must’ve rubbed off on him for how he came a knockin’ in the weeks following, flush on his cheeks but with a look McCree couldn't refuse.  _ Open relationship _ , he had whispered into McCree's hair as the cowboy stroked down his back. It wasn't often someone could look down at him, and he had pressed his mouth to Markus' throat, relishing the other's shiver, his fingers sinking into the hair at his nape.

Shy, but so eager. Tonight the doctor had approached him in the kitchen where he'd been nursing a nightcap, threaded their hands together and led him back to his room. The place is nice and neat, just like Markus. Music streams through the room's systems, base-heavy and hypnotic, and boy, McCree feels a little hypnotized as the doctor pushes him into the plush chair in the corner of the room. Nothing on him but his combat gear stripped to the last layer, all skin tight black material lined in red, clutching his muscles, the narrow curve of his waist, and suddenly McCree's not sure where to look; every part of Markus is a prize with more to discover. And that's all before the doctor starts to move. A moment or two off beat, then he finds what he needs, hips dipping, dragging his hands across his body while McCree warms up like he'd gulped a whiskey in one go.

What can he do but watch and enjoy? The doctor tugs his hair loose, weaves his fingers through it, gaze flickering around McCree's body before finally catching his eyes, bright and dilated, as he bites his lower lip. McCree tries to sit still, but he's itching to touch, holds off until the larger man slides into his lap, still shifting to the music. There's not much room to maneuver, but Markus doesn't let it stop him, thighs framing McCree's. His smell settles over him, all rich warmth, a hint of something clean and earthy, then there's more important things to notice; the doctor lowering himself to his lap, catching against him and receding, sparks of pleasure igniting like a slowly stoked flame. McCree smirks, petting along his thighs, feeling the tense muscles flex and twitch.

"All this for me?"

Markus grabs his hands, repositions them on his ass while his motions waver, less playful, needier, rocking more than dancing.

"Y-yeah," the doctor finally whispers, desperation-laced and low, jerking when McCree gropes him, grabbing at the cowboy's shoulders.

"Don't stop on my account. Show's great from here."

Nothing'd make this moment better than a smoke or a drink, but he keeps his hands and mouth busy in other ways, kissing beneath Markus' jaw, working his fingers into the flesh of his backside, tugging his cheeks apart as the doctor's motions grow sloppier, grinding little thrusts, losing rhythm. Heat radiates through Markus's suit, stifling in the best way, his chest peaking, and there's no way McCree can ignore such a sight, unzips Markus's collar, the fabric parting down his torso, revealing hot, damp skin and small, dark nipples. McCree doesn't hold back, bites down Markus's chest until he can get his lips around one, urging Markus forward with a hand on his ass. It's so sweet, watching him break and being the cause of it, his name tumbling out of Markus’s mouth as pretense disappears and the doctor ruts against him.

McCree knows just what he wants, lifts one thigh, watching as the revelation dawns in Markus's eyes. The doctor shifts, breath caught when he resettles on it, the cutest, fucked out whimper rumbling in his throat. The press is incredible, heat and weight dragging and grinding, and McCree can't keep the grin from his face.

"God, Markus. You're so sexy."

Markus presses his palm over McCree's mouth, catches the cowboy's muffled laughter as his thrusts quicken. The doctor's wound himself up so tight, jittery, snapping drags, and he's content enough to watch the him rub one out on his thigh, would remember it for lonely nights when he's halfway around the world and worse for wear.

McCree gasps as a hand gropes him through his sweats, rubbing his cock that's been aching for attention ever since this sweet thing crawled into his lap.

"Not just me," Markus mumbles.

"Anything you want, sweetheart."

The doctor nods, breath unsteady and warming McCree's ear, his hand easing the elastic down until he gets what he wants, trembling hand wrapping around McCree's cock. Soft palms for a battle medic, more unbelievable when he starts to pump his fist and pre smears down its length, stealing his breath, forcing him to bite back his own sounds.

"Not just me," McCree mimes, wiggling his own hand between where Markus' been sliding over his thigh, space hot and wet. Markus curls in on him, bumping into his hand, a high pitched keen stolen before he remembers himself.

"This what you wanted...my hands on you?"

McCree slips his hand inside his suit, feels drunk as Markus strokes his cock, as he watches the doctor's lips purse and round, as he finds the doctor's own, dragging his fingers along it, revels in every throb and twitch.

"Please...like that, yeah—" Markus whimpers, jerking into the touch.

"You close?" McCree asks, even though he knows by how curt and high-pitched each of Markus's sounds are, how he tries not to lay into McCree though Markus strains against him.

"Harder. I won't break."

There's a moment of hesitance, but it vanishes just as quickly, the hot, wet drag of Markus across his palm, McCree's own cock throbbing at the sweltering, overwhelming desperation of it, of everything he still wants to do with Markus, smother himself between his thighs, drag the sweet doctor onto his cock and edge him until he can't come anymore, ease him through the final tremors of an orgasm or three, leaving him exhausted, sleepily sated.

McCree groans, rubs his thumb along Markus's cock while he fucks into his hand, cramping just a bit, but so worth the hurt when the doctor's thighs seal around it and his whole body thrashes, moans rough and surprised and broken, the larger man quaking, adorable as can be. McCree almost forgets himself, watching Markus’s face twist, lips fixed into a pretty little 'o' as he comes on his hand, still rubbing gently against him while Markus bares down. The doctor's forehead rests on his shoulder, gasps warming the skin through his old tshirt. McCree eases Markus’s hand off his cock and takes himself in his fist, barely needing more than a few pumps to come himself, more intense than he suspected it'd be, moans overshadowing Markus's recovering breaths as he coats his hand and sweats with stripes of cum.

Markus makes a small sound, half-amused, half-awed, lips brushing McCree's neck as he shifts to see.

"That's...a lot."

"Hush," McCree chides, meaning none of it.

He drags Markus close, ignoring his huffed protests about getting dirty, kisses him until his shoulders dip and his voice goes breathy and quiet, until there's nothing but the quiet beat of the music and their breathing slowly synchronizing.


End file.
